


The Ant Situation

by nokomisfics



Series: A Series of Odd Events (that end with John and Sherlock sharing the bed) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ants, Crack Fic, Fluff, M/M, No Plot, Not much plot, Plotless, Pointless, Sleeping Together, funny fic, john and sherlock in one bed, short fic, unestablished relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokomisfics/pseuds/nokomisfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ants are planning a rebellion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ant Situation

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose I enjoy writing pointless fics that end with John and Sherlock sharing a bed.

"There's an ant in my tea," said Sherlock, striding into the kitchen, where John was sipping a cup of his own, and looking rather like life had let him down.

John frowned at him. "Pick it out and drink the rest."

"There's an _ant_ in my _tea_."

He held his cup out for John to examine, and the doctor looked down at the offending creature floating on the surface of Sherlock's Earl Grey, dead. He then returned his gaze to Sherlock and raised his eyebrow.

"Don't be like that," huffed Sherlock.

"I'm not _picking_ it out of _your_ tea."

So Sherlock, high and mighty but pissed by an ant, gulped all of it down in one go.

*

 The situation escalated thereon. First they were in the tea (John's too, eventually - Sherlock was quite vocal about it), and then they were on the couch, and a thin continuous line of them ( _continuous_ ) marched across the telly in a crude diagonal, robbed seemingly of any other care in the world, save for bothering the consulting detective and his agitated doctor.

The aforementioned consulting detective at first made a big show of being in charge of it all.

"So you mean to say that you _planned_ for this?"

"Of course, John. Nothing happens in 221B without my consent."

"You can't control sodding _ants_."

"I could control you if I tried."

"Sod _off_." (Because he knew it was true, Sherlock deduced.)

He then began calling it an experiment.

"Do you know it took just three ants to set you off?"

"The first one was on my pillow, the second in my tea - "

"You could've just picked it out and drank the rest." (Quietly, earning a sour look.)

" - And the third _walked into my nostril._ "

"He was curious. Liked that one."

"I sneezed him out by the sink, would you like to have a look?"

 But eventually both detective and doctor didn't know what to make of them.

It was late into the morning of the third Monday after the ant-in-Sherlock's-tea incident, when John's bedroom door was flung open and Sherlock strode in purposefully.

"They're planning a rebellion."

John sat up groggily and blinked at the dark mess of a man standing by his bed. "Your pets, you mean?"

"They're _following_ me."

"Ants don't plan rebellions, Sh'lock."

Sherlock frowned at his slur, then climbed onto the bed. Feet first. He wasn't sitting on the bed, he was standing on it.

John frowned up at him, his brain still too sleep-addled to take anything seriously. "Turn on the lights, would you?"

"They don't know I'm here yet. The darkness will snag us some minutes."

A beat of silence, and then - "You _are_ talking about the ants, aren't you?"

Followed by another beat of silence on Sherlock's part, roughly translating into: Don't ask stupid questions, John.

If the answer was obvious, wondered John, was the answer obviously _yes_ , or obviously _no_? He wished someone would fill him in on the situation from time to time. Pondering on the unfairness his life had morphed into, he fished under his pillow for his gun and waved it about him.

"D'you think I could help?"

"Put that down before you get both of us killed," snapped Sherlock, his eyes fixed on the door, and that was how John fell asleep, his gun in his left palm and his right one wrapped around Sherlock's ankle, worrying detachedly that the stupid genius might collapse eventually if he didn't settle down for the night.

After perhaps an hour or two, Sherlock looked away from John's bedroom door and down at the sleeping veteran, and let the ghost of a grin flicker on his lips.

After perhaps three more hours, Sherlock let fatigue overtake him, and joined his doctor under the blankets.


End file.
